


Seeking

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Other, Oviposition, POV Monster, POV Second Person, Sex, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-28 02:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: The number of options for brooding your clutches goes down this time of year.





	Seeking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perkyplum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkyplum/gifts).

The number of options for brooding your clutches goes down this time of year.

Your belly aches, bulges out obscenely behind you, heavy with eggs. It drags across the icy dirt and rocks as you move, when usually it hangs high and proud in the air, a majestic globe at your back. You're so heavy, so full, your belly so painful, pulsating rhythmically around the tightly-packed eggs, pulse after pulse after quavering pulse. If you don't find a creature of warmth and blood to host your young soon, you will either lose them all or burst.

You keep searching, many of your youngest limbs weaving around your tender belly, cradling it as you undulate through the forest, seeking, seeking, seeking and not finding. Tantalizing smells waft from every direction, bodies of meat and hot metallic blood and promise, sounding like heartbeats. Each new scent and sound sends crackling throbs through the raw and swollen ovipositor tucked away just inside your massive abdomen, readying it for the laying.

But those bodies are all glimmers of false hope, all too small to hold more than a few of your young. Your projected mind brushes against each, and returns to your head disappointed each time. They would all rupture—like you will soon. You must keep searching.

It's hard. All you can think of is your belly—too full to hold food, too painful for movement, but move and seek you must. You cannot even stop to rest your weary limbs, to rub at the fullness tearing at your insides, to consider your options. These eggs are ready to grow, your best clutch yet, each gelatinous little sphere inside you—hundreds of them—vibrating with the force of a strong and viable near life. There are so few creatures like you around now. It would be a shame to give up on these. But, oh, your belly hurts. Your belly hurts. The fullness is agonizing, and something must be done about it soon.

In the distance, there is a mighty crash. The ground quakes.

The winter world comes alive with noise, a cacophony of rending metal, shattering glass, agitated creatures and ruined trees and your own cry of shock and pain. It rattles your throbbing belly, the young packed within its tight confines slamming violently against each other and lashing out with equal viciousness in protest. You curl up protectively around yourself, shielding your abdomen until the ground stops trembling and your insides settle and the world goes still and quiet again.

There is a stink of smoke in the air, black and heavy and harsh, which you quickly deem unimportant. It is too distant to harm you or your unborn young. But underneath that acrid stench, nearly too faint to smell it? _Promise_.

You extend your senses again, curious, reaching out with your mind. Your brainwaves slide over the tiny creatures in the forest and your fellow Beings until you have stretched almost to the absolute limit of your capabilities, and—_there_. There it is. Amidst the smell and taste and feel of injury and death, there is a survivor—mildly wounded, but in no danger of dying. It feels big, and smells of health and muscle and formidable strength.

You explore its body, until you find its belly. Its belly is broad and deep.

Your ovipositor begins to quiver.

The stress inside you calms, and another insistence takes its place, a deep and primal and driving hum of need filling every cell in your body. Excitement floods your senses, flows through your limbs, so strong every tentacle trembles. You begin to move again, rippling across the icy forest floor, as fast as your gravid body allows.

What is it—a human, you think, it is called a human. You have heard stories of these humans, of how their bodies carry the fragile eggs of your fellow Beings so perfectly, of how their bellies wrap warmly and tenderly around your young, growing round and full, stretching eagerly around the life carried within.

Few humans come here now, afraid of Beings like you. You have no such fear of them. Your ovipositor throbs harder with need, eager and ready, already swelling and extending outward behind you, coiling above your head. Though it is but your imagination, you feel lighter now. It is easier to move, to keep your heavy belly lifted, to undulate across the painful forest floor and seek, seek, seek.

Because you are not seeking anymore, are you? You have _found_.

Standing before the white glow of a raging fire is promise. A human, just as perfect and big and healthy as you imagined. And you are getting closer.

As you approach, sounds flow from the human's face. Its voice is powerful, rich and booming. You don't know what the vocalizations mean, but you like the way they sound. This human is strong. It will have no trouble carrying and bearing your offspring.

When the human is within range of your many eyes, you see that you were right—the human is tall and broad, its prominent muscles casting deep shadows upon its thin, removable secondary skin. Quivers of pleasure thrum through your ovipositor, making it go languid and mobile. The tip of it slithers out, a thin and narrow appendage eager to penetrate, and the appendage coils around itself, waiting.

The human lets out a startled sound and points a stick at you. Bright pulses of light shoot from the end, bouncing hot but harmless off your thick and shining hide. You bat the stick away, annoyed, and the human stumbles backward with another loud noise. This is the perfect opportunity to wrap a limb around its legs, so you do, sweeping it off its feet in the strong grasp of your oldest, biggest tentacle. The human squirms in your grip, tries to free itself with its hands, hitting you with all its significant strength.

You are much stronger. The blows do not hurt you. The thrusts of its hands do not even dent your flesh.

You strip the human free of the pale secondary skin on its legs like a husk from a seed. The fibers make an ugly, ripping sound, but you've been told this does not harm the human, so you do not worry, and do not hesitate to tear away the matching secondary skin on its torso, too. Once bared, you slide your appendages over its body, slow, appraising. You must be sure, after all. It would not be wise to lay your clutch inside a creature that won't survive the pregnancy.

The primary skin beneath is hairy, damp and salty, scarred—the skin of a great survivor. As your tentacles move over its flesh, the human's harsh and ragged breathing quickens further. It experiences some of your touches differently than others, it seems, like you do. The tip of a tentacle dipping into the closed and shallow hole in its belly makes it try harder to squirm away. Your suckers testing the small and dark nubs on its chest make it groan and arch toward your touch. Interesting. But not important.

Within another, smaller layer of white secondary skin, a bulge swells, not unlike your ovipositor, with a darker patch of wetness soaked into it. You reach for that white skin, and the human's thrashing grows more vigorous, more violent. It punches your limbs, writhes in your embrace, trying in vain to free itself. Its shouting gets louder.

You fill its mouth with a young tentacle. The human's teeth try to clamp down on your limb. You slide deeper, ignoring the clench of its mouth and the noisy hum of its voice as the wet heat of a throat embraces you. Humans are somewhat fragile here, you've heard, so you leave just enough room for it to breathe as you sink deeper and deeper, exploring. It swallows around you, damp and tempting, but this is not a good hole for your eggs. You sink down as far as you will go, passing through a resistant opening, and find an organ filled with acid. Unsuitable.

Yanking that fibrous secondary skin away reveals what you need—a tight, puckered hole, tucked away between two firm, rounded protrusions of flesh at the top of the human's legs. One of your thin, new tentacles slithers down the human's back to explore it, almost without your conscious doing.

You probe at the wrinkled entrance with the tip, learning the shape of it, dipping inside as much as the clenching hole allows, which is very little. The human bucks violently, twisting even harder to try to escape, its stifled cries getting louder as it punches you and tries to bite. You wrap another tentacle around its chest and arms, careful not to hurt it.

It still doesn't stop fighting, but it has lost.

You turn your attentions back to its hole. There is no wetness here, but you can take care of that. Fluid oozes from your skin on your command, slick and sweet-smelling and clear, seeping down the human's throat, dripping down the length of your tentacles. The human swallows reflexively, and soon, its frantic cries and violent writhing turn much less hostile. An excited thrill runs through you, and you advance. Your tentacle slides easily into the tight hole. The human moans and goes slack above you.

For a moment, you worry that you've harmed it, but the human keeps breathing, keeps moaning as you explore its insides, clearing them of obstructions, learning the contours of them, determining the best path for your eggs, your ovipositor twitching in excitement. You press experimentally at the edges of the organs, and they seem somewhat fragile, but your fluids should take care of that.

Perhaps you should smear some fluid on its belly, too, you think. It will have to accommodate quite a lot of eggs. Another tentacle takes care of that task. Liquid gathers on the tip, and your tentacle massages the human's firm abdomen with deep yet careful pressure, until it feels soft and yielding and its insides are stretchy, malleable.

You withdraw your tentacle from the human's rear hole, and the human lets out a loud, strangled sound, the noise vibrating up the length of your other appendage. You wonder if these are cries of pain or pleasure. Certainly you are enjoying this, in your own distant way. The human's reactions intrigue you, sparking your curiosity in a way it hasn't been tested in quite some time.

But it is difficult to enjoy anything when you are so heavily pregnant—especially with the thrilling knowledge that you won't be for much longer. Already, your ovipositor is slithering toward the human, sending shocks of pleasure through your body as it slides over your skin, soaking its already wet self in your fluids. Eggs slide down inside it, each tiny sphere filling the narrow tube, ready to reach their new home. You use your tentacles to guide it, arching your limbs, wrapping them gently around the sensitive organ, each touch of your own smooth flesh making you shiver and quake.

The human does not protest as you slide the ovipositor inside. You, however, let out a earth-shaking groan, your own body sagging with relief as some of the terrible pressure inside you eases. But you mustn't get ahead of yourself. You must restrain yourself, resist the urge to lay the eggs all at once. Too much too fast, and it will end in disaster.

You sink deeper, until you've reached the furthest point, and you begin. Eggs spill from inside you, a torrent of them, the young inside the slippery little sacks wriggling as they are released within the human's hot body. You pump them out in spurts, withdrawing slowly and slightly with each pulse, filling each empty area to the limit before moving on.

As you go, the human makes a small, frantic sound—pained, perhaps? Oh, of course, it must be in pain, mustn't it? You were in excruciating pain when you were full. It stands to reason that the human will be as well. So you rub its belly, feeling the bulge of your ovipositor and the increasing swell of your eggs through primary skin and softened muscle, hoping to soothe any aches.

Its belly grows, rounding out in the wake of your ovipositor, distorting to accommodate your clutch. It is doing so well, and you are careful. It would be easy to lose yourself to the pleasure of it all, to the delicious sensation of your belly emptying and calming, to your ovipositor filling and moving, to the hot pressure of the delicate body around your sensitive length. But you do not. If you give in, you risk everything.

That doesn't mean you aren't disappointed when the process ends. Just as you withdraw to the outer edge of the hole, your ovipositor releases the last burst of eggs, then slides rapidly back inside you. You are empty now.

But the human is not. Its belly is swollen like yours once was, heavy and round and full, so full the shallow little hole in the front sticks out like the dripping rod of flesh between its legs. The site steals your breath. So remarkable. A hum of possessiveness runs through you. This isn't just a human—this is _your_ human. Yours.

And its belly will grow even bigger, aided by your fluids until it is a more perfect orb, round and ripe like a fruit, and it will handle it all with ease. Soon, there will be young—_young!_ How long has it been since you've last had young, since any Beings have had young?

Oh, this will be wonderful! Your human is so wonderful.

You lower your precious human onto the softest patch of ground you can find, arranging its limbs until its hands rest upon the swell of its belly. Its movements are slow, sluggish, but it does not hesitate to begin rubbing its distended midsection, its hands pressing firmly against the round bulge. White fluid spurts from that length of flesh between its legs, all over the underside of its swollen belly. With a gusty breath, your human sags, its eyes gone heavy-lidded, its limbs as languid as your own.

You give that globe full of life one last lingering touch before you go, hoping to reassure your human and the young within that you will return soon, that you will be there for their birth. But you cannot stay. Now that you are finally empty, it is time for you to feed.


End file.
